


Minister Riddle

by PenelopeGrace



Series: Tomione Prompts [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Just in the sun, Oh look, Please forgive me when I get British Politics Wrong, There goes another tomione prompt, This Fanfic is Written by an American, Tom is the Minister of Magic, and of course he is a conservative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8183015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeGrace/pseuds/PenelopeGrace
Summary: It had to be him. Of course. Tomione + Modern/Ministry of Magic AU.





	1. Minister Riddle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tomione_Forum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomione_Forum/gifts).



> Prompt: Trapped in an Elevator 
> 
> A/N: I'm going to use the terminology lift instead of elevator to keep it as British as possible. Forgive me if I do anything wrong. I hope that is okay. Also, this is a Modern + Ministry of Magic AU. No time traveling or anything. 
> 
> Here we go. . .

_The elevator opens with a ding._  
  
A soft, feminine voice announces, "Basement Level 2. Department of Magical Law Enforcement." Someone walks in, but Hermione hardly gives them an eye.  
  
Her eyes remain focus on a certain appeal from a crazy Dark witch named Bellatrix Lestrange. She always tries appealing year after year. As the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and as someone who has detained the witch several years ago, Hermione has an interest in this case. Harry is already down in the courtrooms. He is, without a doubt, angry at her for killing his godfather.  
  
It would not be good to see what would Harry do once Bellatrix starts throwing her taunts and shrieks about how Sirius died.  
  
She frowns at the appeal's details. If Bellatrix does indeed give up a few names of her associates and receives a reduced sentence, she could be out earlier. That is unacceptable. But learning the names of the Dark wizards and witches would be crucial in hunting those who learn the Dark Arts.  
  
She weighs the pros and cons.  
  
Before she can think about a single pro, the lift suddenly shakes violently. It swings side by side, up and down. It moves in directions it is not supposed to be. Hermione looks up, and she finds the other occupant in the lift to be none other than the dark-haired Minister of Magic, Tom Riddle. She grimaces, briefly forgetting the dangerous swinging of the lift.  
  
Then the lift gives a mournful squeal and stops.  
  
They are trapped in a lift.  
  
She looks out towards the opening in the lift, seeing nothing but darkness. It's clear that they won't be getting out anytime soon.  
  
Insistently sticking her nose into Bellatrix's appeal as if it is the most engrossing and riveting story that she has ever read in her entire life, she pointedly ignores the Minister of Magic. Now, if only she can actually get used to the appeal's no-nonsense tone, she might actually be able to convince the Minister. She thumbs the page and flips it to the back. The words go into her mind, but they are not latching onto Hermione.  
  
The lift's doors rattles a bit, and the Minister mutters a small, inaudible spell. He makes a few footsteps here and there, turning around to face Hermione. With only politeness in his voice, he casually greets, "Granger."  
  
Hermione inwardly groans. Does she really have to talk? Did he have to open his mouth?  
  
She supposes she can copy Riddle and fake his own faux pleasantry and politeness. She has no idea how the Brits managed to elect him into office. He is as fake as the diamonds Romilda Vane wears around her neck while parading across the lobby as the attractive wife of the director of Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Everyone knows that the poor director is always the least paid out of all the officials ever since that little leak on the Daily Prophet. There is no way he could afford diamonds unless he was corrupted. And Hermione has checked that out before.  
  
Speaking of corruption, she can _smell_ it on Riddle. There is that heavy scent hovering around him. It is the scent of decay, of blood, of death. It is a smell she has associated with Dark wizards.  
  
Of course, she can't do anything about it. Suspicion is not enough to warrant an official investigation. Unofficially. . .  
  
Still frighteningly nothing. Squeaky clean is what she and Harry found. It is obvious that something is wrong with that. Even Albus Dumbledore, who was a good wizard and didn't partake in the Dark Arts, did had a spiffy background. There were signs of Dark Arts, just little hints, in his youth.  
  
She has found that the most clean of people are usually hiding some of the nastiest and ugliest skeletons of all.  
  
"Riddle," she snarks back. "I didn't realize you were here. You aren't with your sycophants. For once."  
  
The Minister arches a fine eyebrow with false concern. "Granger? I don't understand. Have I done something wrong?"  
  
She mimics him. Remaining as professional as possible, she tells him, "You struck down my house elves' rights proposal after it went through the house. Don't you remember that?"  
  
He blinks. "Yes, I do remember that. The proposal, which has managed to impress many members of the International Confederation of Wizards, did not meet my standards."  
  
Hermione's mouth drops. What standards? She wants to whack him in the head and slap him on the arse for a good measure. He passed a ridiculous tax law that was originally proposed by Lucius Malfoy! It's the reason why Malfoy has been walking around in brand new dragon-hide boots, coat, _and_ gloves. He is _too_ happy about his tax cuts.  
  
"The American legislative passed the proposal. Unanimously!"  
  
"They are Americans." There is a certain tone in his voice that would be more fitting if he is talking about rubbish.  
  
Glaring at him, she throws in some countries. "The French."  
  
"They don't have eyes. Nor can they read."  
  
"The Germans."  
  
"They love work."  
  
She waits for her to say something more, but no. He doesn't. "Norwegians."  
  
"Liberals. All of them."  
  
Oh, as if she can't forget the evil conservative right in front of her. "The Canadians."  
  
"Liberals, too."  
  
She cross her arms. "And what about the Chinese?"  
  
There, Tom does give a pause.  
  
Hermione smiles triumphantly.  
  
He can't really say a lot about that one. After all the Chinese prefer cheap labor yet they somehow managed to—  
  
"Saving face," he answers.  
  
She brings her arm to the side, huffing. "Every other country," she says, leaning right into his personal space, "passed the proposal without resistance. Even the most conservative countries. What exactly is the standards this proposal fail to reach?"  
  
A pause.  
  
"Tell me," she breathes.  
  
His dark eyes glance down, just briefly. Then he looks back up. A smirk plays on his lips. "Granger, if you wanted to get close to me, all you needed to do is ask."  
  
All of the sudden, she slaps him in the face.  
  
It is very satisfying.  
  
Despite the red mark on his face, the Minister casually remarks, "You want to know why it doesn't pass my standards? Here's why, Granger. Every time there is an opposite, I find you leading the mob. You have been the loudest critic. You wrote articles after articles about every policy I have supported or passed. Even policies we both supported, you vehemently disagree about the bills and proposals. I'm not sure where I have spurned you."  
  
She admits he isn't wrong.  
  
Straightening her back, she curtly replies, "If you want me to stop criticizing you, then pass the house elves' rights proposal."  
  
He chuckles. "I doubt it is that simple. Is it?" His eyes darken in slightly disguised interest. "Or perhaps, you want my attention?"  
  
Her anger takes her to new levels, and her hand twitches. Why is the Minister of Magic so slappable? "As if I would be attracted to lying, two-faced, head-up-his-arse—"  
  
Quickly, he grabs her by the shoulders and hold her against the lift's walls. His body presses against her, and this is when Hermione realizes how tall he is and the dangerous situation she is in now. She may be in a safe area, but it doesn't mean he won't curse her with some obscure Dark curse. He leans down towards her neck, his mouth right by her ear. Then he whispers, "Shh. . ." The white of his teeth flashes at her, and she stiffens, her nerves waiting in heated anticipation. Her mouth parts, and if she moves an inch, she could press her lips against cheek and. . .

"Interesting choice of words," he hisses. " _Attracted_."

He pauses right next to her neck, the ghost of his teeth sending shivers. Her heart beats quickly, and she wonders if he is close enough to feel the blood pounding madly. Thump, thump, thump. He almost nuzzles her, keeping only a faint distance between them. If they touch, she won't know what would happen next.  
  
As if knowing exactly what she's thinking, he continues, "It is unbecoming for one of my directors to be publically against me. All those things you've written. . . Very naughty."  
  
"You want to know why?" she murmurs back, her breaths soft and controlled.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because you're fake," she tells him.  
  
As if removing one layer of his disguise, he commands, no, _demands_ , "Tell me why."  
  
But she is saved by the lift. It moves again, going down to the next level.  
  
"Basement Level Eight."  
  
Tom slips himself to the other side of the lift. He is relaxing, faking as Hermione has said, just in time for a wizard to sheepishly look at the Minister. "Sorry, Minister Riddle, Director Granger," the wizard apologizes. "The lifts were due for a maintenance check."  
  
"Thank you for fixing the issue, Mr. Pettigrew," says Riddle politely. He brushes by the wizard, probably missing the admiring and dreamy gaze on Pettigrew's face. He pauses and pivots around, giving a strange, odd expression at Hermione. "You should know that I had nothing against the house elves' rights proposal, Director Granger. Or quid pro quo." He runs his gaze over Hermione's clothes. Speculating and considering.  
  
She narrows her eyes.  
  
"I would appreciate your support for the Auror Office's budget plans. I hope you like tea." With those parting words, Minister Riddle walks away with his hands in his robes.  
  
Her mouth drops in surprise. Her feet begins to move, and she stands in the dark hallways and stare at his back.  
  
Her voice sounds surprisingly loud in the empty halls. "Yerba mate, in fact."  
  
His low chuckle echoes. "Then I'll see you in my office for tea today," he calls back.  
  
She shakes her head. For once, she is actually left speechless.


	2. Director Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Didn't intend to write a second part. Heh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hurricane 
> 
> A/N: This is a continuation of the previous prompt, "Stuck in an elevator." This is a Modern/Ministry of Magic AU with Minister Riddle at the helm and Hermione Granger as the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I'm not sure if the head of the department is called director, but in this fanfic, they are.

_There is a certain grace in how chaos reigns in the Minister's section._  
  
Part of Hermione is reluctant in visiting the esteemed Minister's office. He has brushed up against her, muttered a few words, and managed to thoroughly tease her. But she could shiver and feel the ghostly fingers that hover right next to her, not touching. Not touching at all. She could remember the grip of his hands, and. . .   
  
What in the world is she thinking? Letting a serpent like him get into her head? She huffs. Now, that is not the way it is supposed to turn out the first time she faces off against Riddle.  
  
Clutching a stack of proposals and bills to her chest, she watches the three secretaries rush around in a mad panic as papers and letters zoom in and out. Owls squawk unhappily, and in the distance, a blonde staff under the Riddle Administration shrieks, "No, no, no, no! This can't be happening right now. _Incendio! Incendio!_ " A rapid expansion of smoke blackens his hair as flames dance all over his desk.  
  
A bomb of a single voice suddenly explodes. A Howler cries, "YOU BROKE MY HEART, YOU BLOODY BASTARD. I HOPE YOU ENJOY LIVING ON THE STREETS, JOHN. I'M ALREADY BURNING EVERYTHING AND TOSSING YOUR STUFF TO THE RUBBISH. I'M GOING TO TELL EVERYONE. I'M GOING TO TELL YOUR FATHER, YOUR SISTER, YOUR BROTHER, YOUR NEPHEW, AND YOUR BLOODY DOG. I'M EVEN GOING TO TELL YOUR MOTHER!"  
  
Two women in the corner play tug-of-war with their own arms and hands, shouting something about Delanie and their profound love for her.   
  
Hermione's eyes widen at the tornado running through. No, it isn't even a tornado. It is a devastating hurricane, and she has no idea how any of this could be happening right in front of her. It's absolute insanity.   
  
"Hermione," says a silky voice. "You're late." Minister Riddle's head peeks out from the ajar door of his office. He looks left and right, taking in the chaotic environment. "Hmm. . . They still haven't fixed the problem." He sounds completely bored, as if he has seen all of this before.   
  
Hermione quickly walks in, and Riddle shuts the door behind her. It is almost as if she has put on the noise-cancelling headphones her father was sporting the last few days or so. Everything is so quiet and calm, almost as if she is in the eye of the storm. She shakes herself mentally back into awareness and plants the large stack on top of Riddle's messy desk.   
  
Plopping herself into the chair and forcing herself to retain the cool expression she has cultivated over the years, she remarks, "You never did answer why exactly you were against the house elves proposal."  
  
He moves into his own chair and tells her, "Yes. It was an experiment."  
  
She raises an eyebrow. "Want to elaborate on that?"  
  
He gives her a fake smile. "No."   
  
She doubts it is an experiment. More like a political maneuver Riddle is so fond of. The Auror Office's new budget plan has been proposed by Auror Draco Malfoy, whose forte is in accounting. He is nothing like his father, thank goodness. The plan expands the funding for the office, which is already conveniently under Riddle's thumb. Giving more funding to the Aurors would be to give more money to a security agency directly under Riddle's command. Thus, it would actually increase Riddle's power. Without a doubt, Riddle would sign it. The only problem is the other department heads.   
  
Especially her. She's the Director for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the Auror Office is something she oversees. If she doesn't approve of it, it says a lot and the budget plan most likely won't get passed. With or without Riddle's signature.   
  
Riddle stands up and summons two tea cups nonverbally and wandlessly. The tea cups zoom into his hand, and he casually pours tea into the cups. "Yerba mate. Exactly what you like."  
  
The tea cup and saucer flies over to her, hovering before her eyes.   
  
She flicks her gaze towards him. "I want to say that I have nothing against the budget plan." She makes note of the eager glint in his dark eyes. Wait for it. . .   
  
She takes ahold of the tea cup and saucer, sniffing it carefully.   
  
"And?" The Minister tilts his head.   
  
"But I want the house elves proposal to have a revote. I want it to pass." She says calmly. She sets her tea onto Riddle's desk.  
  
He doesn't miss that motion. "You should drink your tea before it gets cold."   
  
Her eyebrow arches. "Should I?"  
  
Moving around his desk and stopping until he is directly behind her, he tsks at her. "So little trust. So unbecoming of someone under my administration."   
  
"Constant vigilance. That is what Auror Moody has always told me."  
  
"He's a smart man," he cedes. His breath warms her ear as he whispers, "I want your vote on the budget plan."   
  
"I want to the proposal to be passed first," she says, keeping herself composed. "First the proposal, and then the budget plan."  
  
A pause. "The budget plan is going up for a vote next week."  
  
"Tick tock," she murmurs back, craning her head to look at his calculating eyes. Snake, she thinks. A pretty, beautiful, venomous snake. So many dangerous adjectives she could use to describe what exactly Riddle is like.   
  
"No. Your vote first."  
  
She reaches up at his dark green tie and tugs on it casually. Then she straightens it, not so subtly yanking at his neck. "We keep on arguing, and we will never get anything done, Riddle. At this rate, the vote will come to pass and neither of us would be satisfied. Besides, I think we can both agree that the budget plan would help you more than it would help me. I'm not an idiot, Riddle. I could read footnotes. Cleverly worded sentence in a certain section of one of your old bills. What was it? Section 19-point-642. It is unfortunate my predecessor actually voted on that."  
  
Surprise appears on his face, then it disappears as quickly as it comes. "I see."  
  
He slips away from her, his back facing towards her as he quietly thinks of some maneuver that would convince her to support the budget plan.   
  
"For someone who ran his campaign on making the government smaller, you certainly are breaking promises left, right, and center." She sits back, staring at him. She smirks and dangles a carrot in front of the snake. She purrs, "I think you would find that I'm alright with quip pro quo, Riddle. There is a bill that I do want to get passed. Your support would be very welcome." Her words are layered with honey, and she knows that he will not be able to resist this.   
  
"You? The one who is always good and pure. Albus Dumbledore's former student?" He spins around in interest. "Quid pro quo?"  
  
"Well, would you rather have me on your side? Or would you rather have me uncovering the skeletons in your closet? Even if you do remove me from the department, you will find yourself facing even greater opposition than before." She suddenly stands up, cornering him. She leans very, very, very close to him. She carefully place fingers on his shoulder, exactly where he touched her. "You'll find that I am exceptional."   
  
Her eyes meet his, and she could see trace amounts of wariness.   
  
He examines her carefully. Then he smiles, his mouth moving until it is an inch from her. "Would you like firewhiskey, Director Granger? I think we can easily find common ground before the sun sets. I believe you will find me very persuasive."


	3. Vote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I can't help myself. 
> 
> Prompts: Mudblood, Voodoo, Raspberry Jam, No Input Signal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm combining all the uncompleted prompts into one drabble. This one is going to be a continuation of the Ministry AU I started a few posts back. This is the third one. Modern + Ministry of Magic + Politics AU. Also, I made up some random party names and they probably sound pretentious and not British at all. I apologize. Tom is part of the British Unity Party, which is, of course, conservative (in American political terminology).

_No Input Signal, the phone flashes._  
  
Hermione looks incredulously at iPhone in her hand. Of all the times her former mentor, Albus Dumbledore, can't be reached. Dumbledore loves to explore Muggle technology for the last six months, and he has insisted on trying out his brand new sparkling phone. Last time she has seen him, he was sitting at his desk at Hogwarts and playing Angry Birds while chewing on lemon drops.   
  
She groans. It would be really nice to have his advice. She and Dumbledore may have slight disagreements over the degree of how powerful the Ministry could be. Actually, it wasn't slight at all. They had a really bad fight over the rights of certain magical creatures, which led to their fallout. No one really knew that her mentorship with him was over. All they knew was what Dumbledore has told them in so many colorful words. It was, the gist of it at least, this: She was ready to go and strike out on her own.   
  
What they did agree on was the subject of Tom Marvolo Riddle, a hotshot and rising figure in the political word under the British Unity Party. He was dangerous, and he would be a deadly opponent to face. He was charming, and he came from humble backgrounds. Abandoned by his Muggle father on the footsteps of an orphanage, he took at job as an intern within the party. He was then discovered by the previous chairman, Mr. Lestrange. He started in the Department of Law Enforcement but as an administrator instead of an officer. Skillful in management and manipulation, he quickly rose up all the way to be Fudge's very own senior secretary. The British wizards and witches voted him in five years ago, and his approval rating is always going higher than the previous year.   
  
What they don't notice is his seemingly sleight-of-hand tricks. He has been slowly accumulating power from various departments here and there. National security, he claims.   
  
Now, he has offered to work with her. Politics is not without unusual and bizarre alliances, but with Tom Riddle? Well, she has worked with Lucius Malfoy on the education crisis happening within the British's education system while she was Dumbledore's student, but Malfoy is nothing compared to Riddle. Malfoy is a practically a PTA Dad who is completely obsessive about the quality of his grandson's magical education. He even sets up bake sales and competitions to fund extracurricular programs. . . which he could easily and literally pay for out of his own pocket money.   
  
Riddle is a whole new level. She herself may be chillingly questioned over methodology by Albus Dumbledore, but if Dumbledore and Riddle are in the same room, it's going to be hellishly cold. Riddle has employed far worse methods that she might have never even heard of.   
  
She does not like it. He is far more experienced and more knowledgeable. In some other place and time, it would be welcomed but here. . . it's dangerous.   
  
She swivels in her chair, staring at nothing. The re-vote for her own proposal is coming up tomorrow morning.   
  
_I._  
  
He plants his pawn in front of the opposition's queen.   
  
His secretary always makes herself toast with raspberry jam in the morning. Tom doesn't mind it. It hides away the smell of. . . other things. Like the sweat and blood and tears of his enemies. It's funny how a simple trick can fool eyes.   
  
Re-vote. Calling for a re-vote is the easiest part. It only requires his approval and signature. Getting it passed is a whole different thing. It's easier said than done. His coalition of British Unity Party, Prophet Party, and Royal Scotland Party will not easy to convince. Prophet Party will be the easiest to convince, because they are a house of bleeding hearts oozing empathy and love. Some days, he stares at the wall and wonder how he managed to get them in his coalition, but then he remembers that the Environmental Party is far worse than the Prophets. They are too out of his ideology to the point that there is only 20 percent similarity.   
  
Then there's the Laborer Party. They are on a similar level with the Prophet Party, but they only have few votes to swing the plan. It would be far easier to suggest pro-house elf rights into the liberal ears than it is to convince his own coalition. For those who are more influential. . . He supposes he could trade favors here and there. Or call out for payment. There is many men who owe debts to him.   
  
He casually brings his pawns towards the other side. Towards promotion.   
  
But is it worth it? Would it help in getting his own plan passed?   
  
He grabs a red pawn. Then shaking his head to himself, he wandlessly and nonverbally transfigures it into a red queen. Hermione Granger. Student of Professor Albus Dumbledore, fighter for the poor, and a bigger bleeding but also crueler heart with a slight hint of darkness. More dark than her own political party would allow, but too light for his British Unity Party. Somewhere in between. He could trust her to vote for the house elves' rights.   
  
He raises his voice, not quite yelling. "Bernadette, I need Draco Malfoy, Sirius Black, Percy Weasley, and Dolores Umbridge in the conference room in an hour!" He stands up and buttons up his robe.   
  
Time to set up formations on the real board.   
  
_II._  
  
Ron, probably as a joke, has sent her a voodoo doll of the Minister with needles sticking out of his chest. It's definitely not made by Ron, though. The lines are too clean, and the details are punctilious. He has his dark hair smoothed back, and his pitched-black eyes seemingly absorb all light. He is even wearing his grey and black Minister of Magic robes with all the snobbishness and ego in his jaw. Fred and George made this, she can tell.   
  
She rolls him around in her palm. She tugs at his black tie and smirks. Well, she might have not made it herself, but it'll do.   
  
She pats the doll's head and slowly begins pulling the needles out of his chest. It's not like it is really him.   
  
_III._  
  
The proposal is up for a vote.   
  
At the center of the chamber, he glances around at the colors witches and wizards are beginning to show above their heads. Blobs of red and green shine brightly. Green for yes. Red for no. There is a total of a hundred and six voters, not including his own. He finds Hermione right behind him with a green swirl of her magic hovering over her head.  
  
Lucius Malfoy, head of the Education Board at Hogwarts, unsurprisingly votes no. He swivels around, finding that it is falling into a similar pattern of fifty-fifty like the last time Granger's proposal was up for vote. In fact, it is going perfectly fifty-fifty. Twelve refuse to vote.   
  
He raises his wand.   
  
Yes.   
  
He doesn't have to turn his head to know that Granger is smiling in victory.  
  
 _IV._  
  
She is completely unsurprised to find a lot of hateful letters. There are too many wizards and witches who are against her proposal. But this one. . .  
  
 _Oh, how would she go on? How can she fight for other people? No, I'm going to be sobbing in the bathroom. Insults hurt me._  
  
She snorts. That letter means nothing to her.   
  
She tosses it into the hungry flames of her fireplace. On it is a single bold word in all caps. It is a word that used to haunt Hermione back in Hogwarts. Now, it is a word that makes no single difference to her. It is nothing, because she no longer cares. She is more than a slur.   
  
She walks out of her office. It would be nice to send a personal thank-you visit to the Minister.   
  
The letter turns brown, its single word glowing crimson.   
  
**_MUDBLOOD._**  
  
 _V._  
  
She has let herself into his office without his own secretary spotting her. There is nothing Dark or suspicious she can see upfront, which is probably why he doesn't bother putting on very powerful wards against intruders. She glances at the photos on his walls. They are of familiar Slytherins. Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy. . . There's more, and she could recognize a lot of them. Some of them are working for the Ministry itself. It's not a coincidence.   
  
Tom Riddle would never carelessly choose his friends. No, he would select them and pick the connections that will prove to be the most fruitful.   
  
The wards over his desk and its drawers are much more difficult to puzzle out, but she eventually breaks through using the tiniest flaw to manipulate the ward into a paradox. Sometimes, a ward that is created to both defend and attack someone could be quite. . . easy to get around. Not by much. But enough for her to make a difference in time.   
  
She casually flips through his desk and glances through his files. Nothing she doesn't have clearance over. But the top most drawer contains. . .  
  
Makeup. It's humorous to think Tom Riddle would need stage makeup to look good on the cameras. She knows very well that he doesn't actually need it. She also finds a comb and hair spray. Casually picking up a stray piece of dark hair hidden between the individual pieces of the drawer, she grins and smoothly pockets it into a vial.   
  
She shuts away the drawer just in time before the Minister lays his eyes on her. She leans back in his seat, raising her eyebrow in challenge.  
  
"I make that proposal into law and carve it into stone, and you choose to repay me by snooping through my desk?" He sits on the other side of his own desk, clearly blocking her way out through the fireplace or the door. "I could get you for treason, Director Granger. That is a violation of sticking your nose where it clearly doesn't belong."  
  
She smirks at him. "As if you would keep anything incriminating here."   
  
"Incriminating?" His lips form a smug grin. He reminds her of a cat that simply loves to play games, toy around with its victims until it swallows it whole. "What is it you're looking for?"  
  
A lie smoothly falls from her tongue. "Inkwell."  
  
The Minister makes no move to validate the inkwells sitting innocently on top of his desk. Instead, he slowly slips around and stands to Hermione's left. His pianist's fingers, long and pale, reach for the second to bottom drawer and pulls out a heavy inkwell. He sets it in front of her, and his voice low, he wonders, "Is that all you're looking for? Or are you looking for something else, Director Granger?"   
  
She reaches out and tugs at his emerald green tie, surprised he doesn't even flinch. Then she flattens the knot and remarks, "I like your chair. Where did you get from?"  
  
"I could order one for you."  
  
"What's the price?"  
  
He transfigures her chair into a long bench and quickly catches her before she falls backwards to his bookshelves. Tom's hands brush by her stomach and wrap around her waist. It takes her another moment to grab the back of his neck. The next, to force her mouth on his lips. She kisses him with purpose, her teeth biting onto his tongue. She draws blood, and he hisses at her. Vengefully, he clamps at her own lip.   
  
Quid pro quo.   
  
She bites him. He bites her. And vice versa.   
  
_VI._  
  
After a day at the Ministry, Hermione enjoys winding down in her basement. It's where she does her research and keeps together her data.   
  
An extract of his blood from her robes proves to be incredibly helpful. She twists a piece of his hair onto the voodoo doll's head. His blood stains the doll's straw-filled body. Tom Riddle's voodoo doll appears to be a miniature version of himself. A lifelike, dead version.   
  
She holds it to her eyes. Then she carefully puts his tiny robes back on, precise in her manners. She holds him delicately by the body and places him on the shelf with many other voodoo dolls of different shapes, sizes, and appearances. Untouched. In pristine condition. Perfect as he is presently. At least, he is. . . as of now.   
  
Funding for the Aurors. . . She is going to vote yes on that at the next meeting. Unlike the Minister himself, she never breaks promises.


End file.
